


A Thousand Year Night--and Still the World Sleeps

by Teharissa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Science Experiments, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teharissa/pseuds/Teharissa
Summary: This is kind of a test--I have a lot I wanted to do with this fic, but I abandoned it a couple of months ago. I reread the first chapter, and while I'm still not sure if I want to continue it, I loved the writing style and wanted to share. So please--if you want to see more of this, or want to ask me about the plot/give me ideas about the plot, please tell me. (It does have a plot, for the record, but the plot is part of what killed me).
Relationships: Hong Kong/Iceland (Hetalia), Iceland & Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	A Thousand Year Night--and Still the World Sleeps

Emil would not call himself the imaginative type.

If asked--pressed, really--to imagine the world before it all, to close his eyes in such imagery and just let his mind process the idea of order, of society, of supposedly simple things such as trees and a blue sky, of happiness and endless supply of things such as water or food, he couldn’t. He couldn’t picture it, not any more than he could reach out and suddenly realize the world had reverted to such a thing.

It didn’t matter. Not really. That world had long since passed. What Emil had come to know, what he always had known, was something different. His world was not orderly. His world was not happy, not green, not supplied with human necessities. It was a dark place. It was, for lack of a better word, a city.

A city of ramshackle buildings practically stacked on top of each other, each one built by people who should have no business in the art of architecture or engineering, buildings that looked like they could fall apart at any second, built-in sheets of metal and any other junk that had been found. It was a city of darkness, an ever-present smog hanging over the place that Emil was quick to call a menace drawn here simply by the people who inhabited such a place. It was a place of the corrupt and of hatred. It was a city overrun with drugs and prostitution, with crime and violence, with the knowledge that to live on borrowed time was what they all were doing, and someday soon, death would hang over them the same way the everpresent smog did.

It was a city of debt.

It wasn’t that bad a place to live--Emil himself could think of a hundred places worse than here, places he himself had lived and been forced to live in. It was a place of humans, a fact rare nowadays. A city--Emil still recalled the first time he’d seen it, had laid eyes upon the destructive force that was this city, tall and looming over the flat landscape around him, the way it had broken the sky and held itself together simply with steel cables and pieces of junk. He marveled at its towering force, and Lukas had bent his head and said, quietly, that it was the force of humanity’s will. He’d been twelve at the time. The city had lost its shine, though perhaps it had never had that shine and it was simply a childhood optimism that he had applied to the terrible place.

But it could have been worse. 

There was no order here. No laws to dictate how people should act. Emil lived with at least that much freedom. This was the best of life offered that anyone could have anyway--one of sin and false happiness that they injected into their bloodstream. No one here was good. No one here wanted to be good--but Emil had long since come to the conclusion that goodness, in all it’s supposed glory, didn’t exist. It never had. It was a false concept created to make humanity feel better about itself.

No. At least Emil lived among the worst of humanity, the scum of the earth, and not people who lied and pretended through their false goodness. Emil much preferred this. And if asked--pressed, really--to imagine the world before it all, to let his mind run and to let himself see this goodness that had supposedly been there before, allowed himself to see a society that had run on law and order and on responsibilities, a society where despite all the restrictions there was this untainted sense of happiness, he couldn’t.

So Emil never even tried.

It was night.

Emil had dressed for the occasion--a gas mask pulled over his pale features, filtering out the thick air around him, heavy with the heat of the world. It still tasted disgusting, but oxygen was needed to live, and Emil wasn’t so far a cynic that he wanted to die. He wore a thick sweater, that of a bold yellow that, if given a voice would have a nasally one, and despite the heat, he’d also equipped himself with a beanie to hold back the oily dirtiness that was his hair. The heat was practically unbearable, given the way sweat slid down and collected on his body, but it was preferable to the looks of older perverts, and it was preferable to having his skin exposed to the elements of this broken planet. So Emil grit his teeth and took the heat without complaint. He wasn’t a child, not some small being that needed constant attention and other trivial things. 

Even in the night, Emil noted dully despite himself, the planet couldn’t heed the call to maybe cool the temperature just a little.

Perhaps complaining was within his nature, but only silently, and only to himself. He refused to have Lukas’s coddling. Not when he could take care of himself, and not when Lukas spent days away, only to return with a worn and tired expression satisfied only by sleep and seeing that Emil was okay. It was in fact--to Emil’s displeasure--another one of those nights. The second night Lukas had been gone, and their meager rations had been dwindling. It was long due time for Emil to restock, and so he’d gone, but as usual, the open-air market was crowded and impossible to butt through, and it was _warm_ and the damn mask that didn’t even change the taste of the disgusting air felt too restricting.

But still, he would complain only silently, only to himself, and he would let his displeasure towards Lukas and this situation be known when he returned. For now, simply navigating the market and the various stalls opened with tradable goods was all that mattered. There were all sorts of people around him. There were some who stumbled around, eyes wide and pupils dilated, who spoke in slurred or hyperactive words. There were children who scurried past, pushing their way through the crowd while they watched--eyes weary, noses in a perpetual state of runniness. Men and women with scars and stoic expressions, leery eyed men watching scantily clad women with a fistful of dollars in their hands. Money, somehow, had managed to retain its--albeit feeble--control on all of humanity. Maybe it was the need for some sort of societal order.

It was something Emil didn’t care about at all--money was a loose concept, even in its continued existence, and trade or theft was just as popular a concept in the broken world. Its reign would come to an end, in either a sudden common realization in the lack of it’s worth or maybe a trail of its slow descent into nothingness.

Again, to Emil, it felt much like the prediction of the fall of humanity. It wasn’t a question of if--they were dying, there was no point denying that. It was more a question of how: would it be with a whisper or a bang?

No matter. Emil was quite content--hah! What a lie, what a silly, little, lie--to shove his way through the thralls of people. Supposedly back in those times, back before it all, the population had just been shy of seven billion--and before that, even, there had been a time where they’d been quite near _nine_ billion--but Emil couldn’t imagine it. Not that he knew the population of the world now, of course, who could possibly? It was just that this city had attracted too many for his own tastes, had attracted hundreds of thousands of those who had descended from the survivors, and even just a small portion of what had used to exist in a single city felt stifling. 

It was a tough draw between which was more stifling--the terrible place he called home, that creaked and made him think that perhaps it would all fall apart at any given moment, or to be out away from such a place, and among the people of the city, those with looks of steel and intentions of the devil.

Emil chose to quite simply _not_ choose.

He settled at a stall, finally, when his indecision came to be too much and looked upon the variety of materials gathered there. There were old pipes that were of no worth, and a couple of nails, a sock, some dog toys, an old magazine featuring a buxom woman smiling prettily, and off to the corner a couple of cans. Emil looked them over without so much as inclining his head--the man behind the counter looked old enough, perhaps one of the first survivors if his age was anything to go by, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be sprung into action if it even looked as if someone was trying to steal from him. The older, the more unpredictable--they had come from a world even more torn and broken than this one, with memories of a world that had once been beautiful.

Seventy years ago. Not that long in practice, yet still, Emil felt like it couldn’t be farther away.

The cans were old and rusted with time, yet Emil could see faintly the worn logos that blasted preserved beans, corn, and other assorted things. The food was set farther back than the rest of the goods, indicating the old man’s paranoia even more, and yet still he was practically sleeping--his chin tucked into his chest, and his eyes somewhat closed. His skin was mottled and he shuddered with every breath, either out of age or illness or both, Emil couldn’t be sure.

Emil moved with a slow deliberation that he hoped wouldn’t startle the man--that is if he wasn’t simply sleeping. It almost seemed that way, from the shadowed eyes that were closed, and the way his body slumped on the counter. But Emil couldn’t be sure, and it was better to move with such slow, practiced movements, to tap the lid of a can and raise an eyebrow at the man.

“Sir,” Emil started, “How much for several of these?”

There was no response. Maybe the man really was sleeping--though, whatever sort of person who would sleep and risk losing what they had to offer was beyond Emil. Maybe he’d gone senile with old age.

“Sir,” he tried again, this time louder, “Sir?”

No response. Emil frowned, expressing his displeasure in the abandonment of all forms of courtesy, and he began to stack the cans himself. If the man wasn’t going to suddenly pounce at him, then there was no reason to pay or trade, and Emil would take what he wanted and go. There were no moral qualms in the matter--he pulled all of the cans, for you could never have too many, towards him and began to delicately place them within his bag--stacking them carefully. Only after he’d finished with the process did he look over the rest of the offered wears.

It was all junk. And the food itself wasn’t too plentiful--likely he wasn’t the first one that had simply taken some and left. So he shouldered his bag again, and kept on his walk, treading the ground cautiously. He kept looking occasionally, peeking over the shoulders of the tall, built people around him, and investigating other offered things. What intrigued him the most was the little bits of technology that would litter the counters, often half-broken or useless, but still so endlessly fascinating. Emil found their appearance and function in equal parts interesting. 

He didn’t understand them, though. Not in the slightest. The most that he’d done with any sort of man-made item was fire a plasma gun--a total of once when he and Lukas had still not lived in the City and were being tailed by a gang of three men. He was a better shot than Lukas--better with a knife, too. Lukas’s skill lied in exactly what Emil didn’t understand--the very tech he liked to look at.

Lukas could take machines apart and put them back together, good as new, and he could program too. When Emil was younger, he thought that that type of engineering and computer skills went hand in hand, simply because Lukas wore both skills with the same nonchalance that he would wear his cross-hair clip--and it was that nonchalance over expensive, old jewelry and skills that had almost killed them a couple of times. People were infuriated with the way Lukas would talk--condescending, steady, as if he were talking to a child, but still with the same dispassionate voice that came with the tide of the century. Emil understood where everyone came from, too. He often found himself in wanting to see Lukas get punched, or to punch Lukas himself, only refraining by the barest level of self-control he had.

Lukas was an annoyance, one that Emil lived with for practicality. So as he paused at a certain stall, taking in the variety of tools offered--this one had things like screwdrivers and baseball bats--Emil came to the thought that buying one such item would grant him a certain privilege, one of having some sort of weapon to knock Lukas out with when his presence grew too irritating.

“You have an evil smile, you know?”

Emil’s smirk vanished, whipping his head around to face whoever had spoken. He’d brought his hands defensively to his chest, one reaching for the pocket where he kept his knife, and his expression hardening into one of preparation. It wasn’t that he was expecting to be attacked, per se, but he was--here, it was not uncommon, and no one would even try to help or even pause in their day if someone decided on you as a target. You could never be too careful.

However, the person who had spoken didn’t look threatening. The moment Emil landed his eyes on him, the amusement that seemed to reflect off the stranger’s expression was obvious--it was a boy, taller than him, yet still, Emil would deduce him to be the same age. He was drawn up in a posture of relaxed casualness, his smile easygoing, and his hair choppy and brown. Emil could see lean muscle through the loose-fitting tank top, coupled with cargo pants. But what was most striking about the boy wasn’t the boy himself, or any of his physical features. No, it was the visor that was placed over his face--a thin black band that wrapped around his head, tucking beneath his hair, and covering his eyes in its completeness. Something like that, worn somewhere like this, meant that this boy was either an idiot waiting to get robbed or--and this was more likely, considering he was equipped with such tech at all--he was dangerous.

Emil looked away again, not dropping his hands, and adjusting it so that the knife hilt sat firmly in the palm of his hand, ready for use at any given moment.

“I don’t think it’s possible to smile evilly,” Emil said petulantly, recalling the boy’s first words, “I was just thinking.”

Thinking about hitting his brother over the head with a baseball bat, but semantics. Emil didn’t think smiling at that was _evil_ no matter what this boy said. It was only natural to get annoyed with your siblings--rivalries between kin had not left even in the world’s darkened ages, they’d only gotten more intense. And that annoyance only grew more so when that sibling was an overprotective older brother with a tendency to pester and nag, and to constantly degrade Emil to that of a child.

So, smiling while thinking such a thought was not evil, and this boy would not tell Emil anything otherwise.

“Sure, sure,” the boy said, amusement positively leaking from his pores, “Believe what you want to believe.”

Ah, so this was the type of person this boy was. A sarcastic cocky son of a bitch. Emil huffed.

“Why are you talking to me?”

It was as good a question as any--social interaction was usually a wary thing, not something tossed around so offhandedly and in such an amicable manner. Friends were gained through slowly built trust, and rarely were conversations made simply for their name--to converse. There was always something, some ulterior motive, some secret intention, some need to extort or use or _hurt_ for their own benefit.

And Emil had never been known for tact.

To accompany his words, he twisted his head to offer a stare, one that bordered between that of curiosity and icy cruelty. And, for his part at least, the boy seemed completely unaffected--his smile didn’t waver, and he barely even twitched a muscle. If anything, the amusement simply grew to almost unbearable levels.

“Because,” the boy laughed, “You looked interesting.”

Well, it was a reason. Whether it was truthful or not, Emil couldn’t be sure, but beyond that--well.

“I’m not all that interesting.”

“I find that interesting people always seem to say that.”

Emil flushed. Interesting--he was no such thing. He was simply a survivor, the same as everyone else in the godforsaken world. He was average at best--the same as the people that surrounded them. And there were plenty of people around them--but no one paid them or their conversation the time of day, not even the storekeeper who merely watched over his products with a wary eye. Though, waiting in front of the stall of tools was asking for them to be overheard--so Emil did have half a mind to walk as they spoke. The boy seemed to have a similar idea, catching the pattern of Emil’s eyes, and he nodded over his shoulder in a request to join him before beginning a walk through the crowd.

It was up to Emil whether or not he took it. It was up to him to decide if he wanted to pursue this strange boy’s conversation.

It shouldn’t have been a factor. Life was just the process of surviving. But Emil couldn’t remember the last time he’d interacted with someone in such a friendly manner that wasn’t Lukas. Even Lukas had those he was close to--people whom he had associated with and found common ground within his damned hell place that was work.

Emil didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to admit his loneliness. So he didn’t--there were a hundred other reasons to pursue this stranger. And Emil grasped for them, pretended that those were the reason.

He followed the boy.

At first, it was silent--both of them simply feeling out the other’s presence. Emil had to catch up, and then there was the languid, slow way in which the boy walked. Emil had to adjust himself, and then the mask that was placed in such a stifling way over his face. He wondered why the boy, who looked so pressed and clean, wouldn’t have any sort of mask either. The air was a poison.

Then again. Emil didn’t wear it all the time, either. It wasn’t safe to assume that the boy didn’t filter the poison that they breathed. He could easily have it at any other time.

“What about you, then?” Emil asked, uncertain, “Would you call yourself interesting?”

Emil certainly would. There was something about him--more than the material goods, and the aura of control the boy seemed to hold. It was the way he held himself, the little things. There was something strange in there, something--dare Emil say it?--interesting.

“Of course. I’m among one of the most intriguing people you’ll ever meet,” the boy gestured flamboyantly, one of his hands hitting the shoulder of some passing woman, who offered a scathing look the boy ignored, “There’s this mystery about me that you will never be able to resist. Not to like, brag or anything, but there are few you’ll meet that are anything like me.”

It was definitely to brag--and more so, Emil thought bitterly, he was sure the boy was right in that regard. He was mysterious, even in his casual manner, and he was stupidly accurate even in his arrogant decisions.

“You seem to think a lot of yourself.”

Emil thought that maybe his lack of tact would get him killed one day. Maybe he could ask Lukas for help on social skills--but, then, he’d never live that down, and Lukas was even worse at interaction than he was.

“And you seem to think so little of _yourself_ ,” the boy retorted, sly smile back on his face. Emil hummed, not denying the claim. It would be foolish to do so when it was true. He simply was another person trying to get by, and to think more of himself was a gross overestimation of who he was.

“Like I said,” Emil watched a child, of about five, maybe, duck around a corner of a building. They were nearing the edge of the market--and no matter how lonely Emil was, he would not leave the place with a stranger. To do so and expect to be safe, in both finances and body, was that of idiocy, and Emil would not have it. “I’m not that interesting.”

The boy at least seemed to have the same decency to not begin towards the rest of the city, to the parts less densely populated, to the parts where unspeakable crimes were committed every day without a soul knowing for a fact.

“You seem very sure of that,” the boy tilted his head inquisitively, “And my interest is piqued. But I’ll let you wallow in your thoughts for now--my presence is sure to spark some sort of revelation in you.”

A revelation, not so much. Confusion, bewilderment, a growing curiosity? Emil would say those were more on the mark. And so the boy’s words elicited a snort from him and an eye roll.

“So you say.”

“I do say,” the boy stopped midstep, and Emil stumbled over his own feet trying to retain his position by his side. “What’s your name?”

A simple question. Emil felt his throat dry just a little, the most basic sense of self-preservation reminding him not to offer something he wasn’t sure to get in return.

“You first.”

The boy nodded approvingly.

“So you’re not stupid--that’s a point in your favor,” the boy laughed again, “I have to say I can’t tell you. Again, I’m quite the man of mystery. But perhaps we’ll meet again, nameless stranger.”

“I’m sure we won’t,” Emil said, “And you have to leave?”

“Yeah. I totally have something to do,” the boy tapped the visor in a shameless manner, drawing attention to the thing. Communication, obviously, greater visibility--Emil did wonder what else it could do. But still, he refused to look impressed, and he simply nodded in a calm manner.

“Ah. Good luck, then. With whatever it is.”

“Thanks. I won’t need it, but thanks.”

They stood there for a moment, awkward. Emil looked away.

“I also have something to do, so I’m going to leave now. Bye.”

This time he didn’t wait for a response. He was all too quick to leave--ending conversations had always been a struggle, and he didn’t need to embarrass himself, at least not further than he already had.

Besides.

He was right when he said that he wouldn’t see him again. It was unlikely, to say the least, and Emil wasn’t one to look for new people. Especially not people as suspiciously odd as that boy, people that drew eyes that didn’t belong anywhere near Emil.

He didn’t need the attention. Not when he was already a target.

* * *

Each step through the city itself only provided more a view of how things were. From the stench of human filth that littered walkways, to the shouts of someone being attacked, everything in such a place could only be something of filth.

Emil had long since tried to come to terms with how humanity had reached this point. How they had fallen from greatness--a time of innovation and social progression, a time of such wonders, to this shithole. He had a timeline, technically--the year the world had sent themselves pummeling into nuclear warfare, the time spent where humanity had nearly died, and now--years later, yet still not far enough, when the planet was just beginning to heal, and the species had organized itself again. Barely. And loosely--organization was a term simply meaning gathered, held together by various organizations or settlements, and held law over themselves. They made their own food--though often it was tasteless--and electricity was just starting to be produced again. But the food really only came through those who were self directed enough to choose to provide it, and everyone else stole or traded with them.

Emil still preferred the canned goods he could find--the clanking of such materials in his bag were evidence enough--for they would not spoil, despite their dwindling numbers. 

So. Humanity had risen to the challenge and organized itself again, or so they said, though really they had formed ill fitting organizations of hatred, and engaged in relentless violence against each other.

It didn’t matter. None of it really mattered. Emil wasn’t sure humanity could rescue itself at this point, despite how far they had come. They were too self destructive, and Emil would rather focus on his own survival. So he walked through the city of such repulsive energy, keeping his eyes flitting to every side, wary, and his speed quick. Morning would come soon; he’d spent the whole night out and about--mostly out of need to distract himself.

And distract himself he had, through every trinket he looked over, and every pause to remember the odd boy. But now he had no such distractions. Now, he was faced with the view of his flat--a place looming a story above him, with a large iron ladder, rusted with time, leading up towards it. It was tiny, even from this view, and Emil tried to tamp down on his anxiety as he let his fingers trail over the first metal rung. It was impossible not to feel anxious, not with the reminder that this had been the second night that Lukas had not returned. And--maybe, just maybe, he had done so while Emil was out.

It was all too obvious when he kicked open the door, barely hanging on it’s hinges, and Emil was greeted with the sight of an empty apartment that it was not the case.

There was the single mattress that he and Lukas shared, uninhabited, and the decisive lack of any other human being looking through their broken minifridge (it had never worked, nor would anyone gather the energy to make it work if it did). The small gadgets that littered the floor, all parts of Lukas’s current projects, were unattended.

Emil could feel his heart sinking, empty and cold within his chest. He told himself it was disappointment that Lukas might not make it in time to pay the rent, and Emil might become homeless. He told himself it was an anger at Lukas for not being here.

He told himself that it wasn’t worry, because Lukas had told him not to worry, and Emil refused to do such a thing over his nuisance of a brother. He pulled the mask off his face, then the hat that had held back his greasy hair, and finally he ditched the sweater that clung to his skin--due to the sweat. He smelled terrible. Though it was hardly of real concern--and Emil couldn’t care less, not with the hollow feeling in his gut at Lukas’s absence.

Really, he should put the mask back on before he passed out.

He really should. The piece of junk that he called a flat didn’t protect him from the poisonous fumes that were the air.

But.

Emil let himself fall into his mattress, nuzzling his head into its surface, and letting his eyes slip closed, hoping for sleep to let his mind drift. Hopefully, sleep would be a sufficient distraction. A distraction equal to that odd boy from the market, the one who spoke so casually and freely, and hopefully sleep would let his tired body have some relief. Sleep had always been the only escape--and he’d spent the entire night awake, so his body craved some form of respite.

Lukas, he had to remind himself, would be back. He always managed, and he’d never been missing for more than four days. He would be back, and then Emil could roll his eyes and scoff at the worry--because maybe, while his eyelids slipped closed, and his mind grew slow with content, he could admit it was worry--that he’d felt.

Sleep laid its claim on him, as surely as the day began.

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a test--I have a lot I wanted to do with this fic, but I abandoned it a couple of months ago. I reread the first chapter, and while I'm still not sure if I want to continue it, I loved the writing style and wanted to share. So please--if you want to see more of this, or want to ask me about the plot/give me ideas about the plot, please tell me. (It does have a plot, for the record, but the plot is part of what killed me).


End file.
